rWritten for Moure's Rural New-Yorker.] 
A MARCH REVERIE, 
iog and indiflVrent an attitude aa I knew how to— 
threw my feet into another, and commenced a 
rocking motion with the one I occupied—puffing 
away dull care and sorrow wiih my ‘‘mild Ha¬ 
vana,” and watching the beautiful wreathB oi 
smoke aa they went rolling and curling abov< 
my head, creating a peculiar haziness, which 
“spiritualized and made poetical” everything of 
rudeness about the room—except my sister Mag. 
Her rudeness changed not a whit. 
In her usual high-toned key, 6hc sang out—“Do 
stop your smoking—it is so blue here, I can’t tell 
whether I Am a mnn, or a womanbut I made no 
reply, nor moved a muscle. “You arc not fit to 
be in the society of Hottentots—I am so tired of 
picking up after you, trying to keep yon in any 
kind of order. I can’t corne over but once a 
week, but yon are buried alive,—oh! yon dirty 
sloven,—how long do you ’spose you'd let these 
chairs, and this sofa, and this mahogany bureau 
go without dusting?” On opening one of the 
drawers, she exclaimed,—“and 1 do declare, if 
here aint your blucking-box and brush, boot-jack, 
and band-saw, and I don’t know what else, right 
among those Dice linen shiits and collars that I 
took so much paina with awhile ago. It is dis¬ 
couraging to ever think of making anything of 
such a crusty, old, good-for-nothing nobody aa 
you are. Sit there, as mum as a log, if you want 
to—I would advise you not to apeak—there are 
your boots, they have got easy a cart-load of mud 
on them, (there wasn't half a load,)—your coat is 
ont at the elbows—a long rent in your pants— 
and—indeed, you are the very picture of misery 
and woe. You look as though you had eaten 
nothing but guttapercha biscuit and India-rubber 
flap-jacks, and slept on hickory mattrasscs with 
sheet-iron bed c lothing, for these six months that 
you have been living alone over here.” 
By this time the room had become so filled with 
blue smoke, blue noses, and blue-, well, I 
began to feel singularly uncomfortable, and wished 
myself deep in the forest with my dog and gun, 
and out of sight and hearing of my termngent 
sister. Happily, I was near the door,—utiper¬ 
ceived I caught my hat and “hunting rig,” and 
off I started. I do not know how long Bister 
Mao. kept up her high-toned. eloquence. It is 
enough to say, that I could hear disconnected sen¬ 
tences—such as,— get married,— I can’t come 
over, — you've enough of the needful,—wife, Ac., 
for a half a mile away. i. a. g. 
Waverly, N. Y., i860. 
[Written for Moore's Rural New-Yorker.] 
MONUMENTS FOR WOMEN. 
BT Df.HRO.V B8LL 
Tub Rural has long been a favorite with me; 
l have read it for years; but amid the multitudi¬ 
nous articles which the ladies have written, I have 
not observed even a hint upon a subject which 1 
long to see noticed in popular papers, aud by the 
wliolo community, — the important subject oi 
erecting monuments to the memory of the brave 
and nobie-hcurted Women, who bavo diffused as 
much knowledge, and rendered as much valuable 
assistance, in the rise and progress of the Ameri 
can Nation, as have the men. If peace, temper¬ 
ance, patience, long forbearance, meekness, be¬ 
nevolence and zeal for good woiks—which is hap¬ 
piness,—be the aim in the ouward march of the 
nation, then, I say, award the standard bearers 
the highest honors bestowed upon any class. The 
great Daniel Webster said, in his speech at the 
dedication of the Bunker Hill Monument:—“It 
is not from my lips, or from any human lips, that 
the stream of eloquence is to flow which shall be 
competent to express the emotions of this vast 
multitude. The potent speaker stands motionless 
before you.” 
If monuments speak more forcibly than great 
orators, let us have them to speak in favor of hu¬ 
manity, justice, religion, and truth,— such monu¬ 
ments would draw the attention of the female 
portion of the community from being absorbed in 
the fashionable turns and quirks of society, and 
induce many to help in carrying forward the 
standard of the nation's progress. I descended 
from a mother of the Revolution, but do not, 
therefore, contend that my ancestors have loftier 
privileges than the muses; yet 1 know that 
there are high claims which arc neglected. My 
desire is to bring the matter to the notice of the 
many able writers for the Rural; and should a 
discussion of the subject thereby arise, my wishes 
will be accomplished. 8 . Secrkht. 
West liberty, Logan Co., 0., I860. 
Tax day haa passed, and chilling wind# 
In fitful guate are eighiog, 
While o’er the sky a broken mass 
Of gloomy clouds are flying; 
And in the west we see the sign 
That give* ns truthful warning 
Of driving enow and freezing rain,— 
A dreadful *torm ere morning. 
Now to the blazing fire we’ll draw 
Our easy Chaira ntilf nearer; 
Such clouded akieaand wailing wind* 
But render home still dearer 
To those who lore a quiet life, 
Secure from all intrusion, 
Remote from every anxious care 
And from the world's coufusion. 
With hooka wo love, we’ll smile to hear 
The chill winds wildly shrieking,— 
We’ll stir the coals and trim the lamp, 
Then, after knowledge seeking, 
We’ll read the thoughts of gifted ones,— 
Of Poets, Statesman, Sages,— 
Thoughts that will live throughout all time 
On their immortal pages. 
Thus March, the chill and dreaded month, 
With wind and storm is reigning, 
We see the clouds and feel the cold, 
But, Dever once complaining, 
We’ll think of April’s sunny skies,— 
Of flower* In woodland peeping,— 
And bursting buds,—and murm’ring rill* 
Adown the hillside leaping. 
Fayette, Mo., March, I860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
CHURCH BELLS. 
A WOMAN’S QUESTION, 
Beporb I trust my fate to theo, 
Or place my hand in thine,— 
Before I let thy future give 
Color and form to mine,— 
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night, 
for me. 
I break all slighter bond*, nor feel 
Oue shadow of regret: 
I* there one link within the past 
That holds thy spirit yet? 
Or is thy faith a* clear and free as that which I can 
pledge to thee? 
Does there within thy dimmest dreams 
A possible future shine, 
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe 
Untouched, unshared by mine? 
If so, at any pain or cost, oh tell me before all is lost! 
Look deeper still. If thou canst feel 
Within thy inmost soul, 
That thou hast kept a portion back 
While I have staked the whole, 
I,el no false pity spare the blow, hut in true mercy tell 
me bo. 
Is there within thy heart a need 
That mine cauuot fulfill? 
One chord that any other hand 
Could better wake or still? 
Speak now, lest at some future day my whole soul wither 
and decay. 
Lives there witliiQ thy nature hid, 
The demon spirit Change, 
Shedding a passing glory *till 
On all things new and strange? 
It may not bo thy fault alooe, but shield my heart 
against thy own. 
Cotildwt thou withdraw thy hand one day, 
And answer to my claim, 
That fate, and that to-day's mistake, 
Not thou, had been to blame. 
Some soothe their conscience thus, but/Aon—oh surely 
thou wilt warn me now! 
I love to hear their earnest ringing, 
With joyous Lines they fill the air,— 
Like heavenly spirits, geutiy bringing 
Mortals to the “ house of prayer,” 
I love to hear their sacred tolling,— 
“These are hallowed hours,’’ they say; 
Tb<n i eas our thoughts thuir idle strolling, 
For -‘ hoi. It the Sabbath day." 
I ton lo lu-i-r their last sounds dying, 
A-t w. rs ipers their praises blend; 
Then corn' s a thought, how soul-inspiring, 
“ Eternal songs will never end.” 
I love to hear from Zion’s watch-towers, 
How Christ is but the “ Life, the Way,’’ 
And that Ills home may soon bo ours, 
If we will only “ Watch, and pray." 
Monroe county, N. Y., I860. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
HE SO LOVED THE WORLD.” 
Behold Christ, on His radiant throne, enjoy¬ 
ing, with the Father and the holy angels, the glo¬ 
ries of the heavenly world,—then view Him on 
this Bin-cursed earth, going about doing good, 
having not even a place to lay His head. Behold 
Him, again, in the garden, praying, while from 
every pore gusbi s the bloody sweat,—hear Him, 
in agony, imploring the Father to remove the enp 
if it were possible, yet, in all meekness, adding, 
“ not my will, but thine be done.” 
0, can we witness all this, and finally see Him 
yield Himself up to he crucified, wearing on His 
brow, instead of a crown of glory, one of pierc¬ 
ing thorns, and not feci our hearts overflow with 
love for Oue who loved us so freely, and suffered 
so much to procure for us what we could not have 
without Buch a sacrifice. “ For God so loved the 
world that He gave His only begotten Son, that 
whosoever believeth on Him might not perish, 
but have eternal life.” Eternal lifet how the very 
thought makes our hearts leap for joy, yet when 
wo realize at how dear a rate it lias been pur¬ 
chased, tears fill our eyes, and we feel that lan¬ 
guage is too poor to express our gratitude to the 
dear Kkdekmkr who left the shining courts of 
heaven, assumed our nature, suffered and died on 
tho ignominious cross, to gain for us admittance 
into the blissful realms of Paradise, where “there 
shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor cry¬ 
ing, neither shall there be any more pain; fortbe 
former things arc passed away.” 
O, for this love lot rocks and hill* 
Their lasting silence break; 
And all hartnouiouH tongue* 
Tho Savior’s praises speak. 
Angels, assist our mighty joys, 
Strike all your harps of gold; 
But when you raise your highest notes, 
His love can ne’er be told. 
Oxford, N. Y., 1860. F. M. Turxeb. 
LOVE A WIFE AND RULE A WIFE. 
[Written for Moore’s Rural New-Yorker.] 
EXPERIENCE OF A BACHELOR 
HT SOL. r. TAKY 
published work:—" Women must be constituted 
very differently from men. A word said, a line 
written, and we are happy; omitted, our hearts 
ache as if for a great misfortune. Men cannot 
feel it, or guess at it; if they djd, the most care¬ 
less of them would be slow to wound us so.” 
The grave hides many a heart which has been 
grieved to death, because one who might, after 
all, have loved it, after a certain careless fashion, 
was deaf, dumb, and blind to Hie truth iu the 
sentence we have just quoted, or if not, was at 
least restive and impatient with regard to ih 
Many men who marry late in life, being accus¬ 
tomed only to take care of themselves, arid that 
in tho most erratic, rambling, exciting fashion, 
eating and drinking, sleeping and waking, when¬ 
ever their fancy, or good cheer and amusements, 
questionable or unquestionable, prompted, come 
at lust, when they get tired of this, with their 
selfish habits fixed as fate, to matrimony. For 
awhile it is a novelty. Shortly it is as strange as 
irksome, this always being obliged to consider 
the comfort and happiness of another. To have 
something always hanging on the arm, which 
used to swing free, or at most but twirl a cane. 
Then they think their duty done, if they provide 
food aud clothing, and refrain (possibly) from 
harsh words. Ah! is it? Listen to that sigh as 
you close the door. Watch the gradual fading 
of the eyo, the paling of the cheek, not from age 
—she should he yet young—but that gnawing 
pain at the heart, born of the settled conviction 
that the great hungry craving of her soul, as fai¬ 
ns you are concerned, must go forever unsatis. 
tied. God help such wives, and keep them from 
attempting to slake their souls’thirst from pois¬ 
oned fountains! 
l’hiuk you, her husband, how little a kind 
word, a smile, a caress to you, how much to her. 
If yon call those things “childish,” and “beneath 
your notice,” then you should never have married. 
There are men who should remain forever single. 
You are one. You have no right to require of a 
woman her health, strength, time, aui devotion, 
to mock her with this shadowy, unsatisfactory 
return. A new bonnet, a dress, a shawl, a watch, 
anything, everything but what of all woman's 
heart most craves—sympathy, approbation, love. 
She may bo rich in everylhiug else, but if she 
be poor in these, and is a good wife, she had 
better die. 
There are hard, untoward, ugly, monstrosities 
of women, (rare exceptions,) who neither require 
love nor know bow to give it. We are not speak¬ 
ing of these. That big-hearted, loving, noble 
men have occasionally been thrown away upon 
such, does not disprove what we have been say¬ 
ing. But even a man thus situated has greatly 
the advantage of a woman in a similar position, 
because, over the needle, a woman may throw 
herself into an insane asylum, while the anxiety 
or turmoil of business life, is at least a sort of 
reprieve to him. 
Do you ask me, “Are there no happy wives?” 
God be praised! yes, and glorious, lovable hus¬ 
bands, too, who know how to treat a woman, and 
would-have her neither fool nor drudge! Almost 
every wife would be a good and merry wife were 
she only loved enough. Let us, husbands, present 
and prospective, think of this .—London Journal, 
Fob reasons which 1 need not now give, (suffice 
it to say that they are good ones,) I never have 
“ for-better-or-worst ” myself. By so doing, I, of 
course, have not escaped the malicious sneers and 
contumely usually showered upon those who de¬ 
light in the quietude of a single life, by the whole 
marital race, who seem to think that we are a class 
of nondescript beings—suffered to exist only aa 
privileged subjects for their opprobrious epithets. 
It is supposed that we are insensible to the 
finer feelings? If so, it is a mistaken idea. How, 
think you, such u very euphonious and silver- 
toned snubrn/nrl. as “Old Bach,” rings on our cars, 
which is so inappropriately and wickedly given 
to us worthies. Why, I would an enough-sight, 
rather be called an old — anything else; for then 
there would bo something charming about the 
antiquity of the thing. Everybody and every¬ 
thing else but an “Old Bach,” or an “Old Hut,” 
is favored, and courted, and loved, and reverenced, 
because they are old. There is something eon- 
fleeted with the antiquity of most objects, that, 
on beholding them, fills one with awe and rever¬ 
ence; and this reverential feeling which thus 
comes over the individual, makes them objects to 
be sought after and loved. But not so with us 
antiquated, dont-wish-to-marry gentlemen. In¬ 
stead of these votaries of Hymen paying us the 
deference that they do to other ancieut ohjects. 
they insult and mock us, and seem to have as 
much abhorrence of our presence aa they would 
of a campbene explosion. What horrid ideas 
they have of us,—not worse could they have of 
lious, hyenas, or tigers,—and if they dared to, 1 
verily believe they would call us cannibals; but as 
they dared uot call us jnan-eaters, they come the 
next thing to it—they are uproarious, both great 
and small, in calling us woman-haters. 
They say that we are cold, crusty, odd, fretful, 
peevish, mean, and I dont know wbat more. Now, 
is it not almost past endurance? If such treat¬ 
ment is not enough to make one crusty, what is? 
But then, we chums arc not crusty,—it is as false 
a charge aa was ever made upon the purest inno¬ 
cence. How Is it the world have always mistaken 
our true character. Tho mass of mankind have 
such a decided penchant for matrimony, that it 
cannot he expected they will ever represent us in 
a true light. The truth is, we are, very generally, 
— there are exceptions to all rules,—a l'nu-loving, 
warm-souled lot of fellows,—jolly, and fond of a 
good time generally,—and the happy, jovial man¬ 
ner in which we receive the sneers and insults 
heaped upon na by the poor, deluded followers of 
Hymen, is proof of it. 
Again, we are not only insulted and sneered at, 
but are often teased, twee died, and bamboozled, 
tilL I wonder there 5* an ounce of patience among 
the whole of us. Only a day or two ago, while I 
was sitting, as we “ Baches,” if you please, knuw 
how to sit, enjoying the luxuries of a cigar, my 
books and papers scattered around upon the 
table for couvenience— as me “ Baches' 1 knoiv how 
to have things convenient, —my clothes, which were 
not in immediate use, lying about on the floor, on 
the chairs, or hanging gracefully upon the bed¬ 
post lor the same reason,—my gun, ammunition, 
and other hunting '\fixens ”—for I am fond of 
hunting,— we “ Baches" generally are, — all nice 
and tidy around the stove-pjpe to keep them 
shootable,—in came, harem-scarem-like, my sis¬ 
ter! Now, Mag. don't like to have things handy, 
nor ever did; and as she entered the door, she 
cast a look of horror about the room, and soon 
commenced a series of gyrations, curves, and 
various shaped figures not demonstrated in conic 
sections. I, knowing a perfect tornado to be near 
at hand, prepared myself the best I could, to meet 
it. I concluded that the only thing I could do, 
and which would cause me the least trouble, was, 
possum-like, to feign indifference. (Who in the 
world but a “Bach,” a quiet, affable “Old Bach,"’ 
could or would have withstood the effects of such 
a “ hauliug over the coals?" Most assuredly, no 
one.) So I put myself into a chair in aa una3sum- 
[ Written for Moore'* Rural New-Yorker.] 
"THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.” 
Have you one in your home, reader?—and 
does your heart beat quicker with emotions of 
love and tenderness as you look upon it? Quaint 
and'old-fasbioned it may be, aud yet money would 
not tempt you to part with it, and the hallowed 
associations which cluster around it. You can 
remember when it was the height of your felicity 
to sit closely elapsed in the loving embrace of a 
mother, and listen to her sweet voice as she sang 
thecveninglullaby, keeping time to the tender mel- 
ody with tho rocking of that chair. Perhaps *he has 
gone from you, now, to that far home of blissful 
rest, and you have no more a mother here. Years 
may have gone by since she left you,—little ones 
may now call you by that hallowed name, and you 
may sit in her chair at the sweet twilight hour 
and sing to them that dear old hymn, while tears 
of tender regret steal unbidden to your eyes as 
you con thoso old familiar words, and remember 
that tho lips which taught them to you are sealed 
with the signet of death. The old chair may look 
awkward and uncouth to stranger eyes, but to 
yours’tis a “sacred thing,” and you often think, 
with unavailing sorrow, of the tears which were 
shed there on your account You remember, too, 
with a thrill of delight, the sweet kiss of forgive¬ 
ness bestowed upon you there, when the childish 
folly was repented of and confessed. But, per¬ 
haps, the honored parent is still spared to you,— 
the “old arm-chair” is not vacant in your home ,— 
the loving heart of a mother, as warm, as tender, 
and ns strong, ns wheu iu the first blush of life, 
still blesses you with its faithful sympathy. The 
once brown and glossy locks may be bleached 
white as snow,—the aged cheeks wrinkled and thin, 
which once wore the blended tints of the lily and 
the rose, but their beauty and freshness were 
wasted for yon; for you, those now feeble bauds 
toiled early and late in the morning of life; for 
you she denied herself; for you she looked with 
anxious eyes into the future, striving by her 
untiring watchfulness to guide you in that way 
which should prove the “ path of peace ” to your 
young feet, and for you she now lives over again 
the years that are gone forever. Then, can you 
love too well, nr do too much for her, who has 
been a true and faithful mother to you? There is 
something indescribably beautiful in the homage 
which a dutiful child pays to an aged and infirm 
parent,—the sands of a well-spent life are running 
low, and ohl how tender and considerate should 
be the attention bestowed. No trait is so beauti¬ 
ful in childhood, youth, or maturer life, as an 
affectionate regard, and delicate respect to age, 
which may be shown in a thousand little atten¬ 
tions, insignificant in themselves, but which are, 
to the aged heart, as gentle dews and pleasant 
sunshine to the tender flower. 
Then honor thou the aged friend 
Who liugera with thee now; 
The lines which time and care have traced 
Across the furrowed brow, 
The withered cheek, the trembling hands. 
The gentle eyes grown dim, 
The faltering step and failing strength, 
Should temierest tributes win; 
For though the “ feeble body fail” 
Beneath the weight of years, 
Tho loving heart that beats w ithin 
Unfading beauty wears. 
Then strew the path her feet roust tread, 
With fragrant flowers of love; 
Oh! strive with every word and look, 
AflecUou's strength to prove. 
And when the precious life is closed, 
The loving heart-throbs stilled, 
No bitter tear* shall fill thine eyes 
For duties unfulfilled. 
East Henrietta, N, Y, 1860. E. S. T. 
HALLAM, MACAULAY, CARLYLE. 
A late writer in Fraser’s Magazine says the 
three British historians, Ilailam, Macaulay, and 
Carlyle, seem to have been given to us for the 
purpose of showing in how different ways history 
may be written. The critic thus discusses the 
question: 
Mr. Hallam, with a stylo chaste even to prudery, 
and a judgment impartial almost to a fault; 
thoughtful, indeed, but thoughtful only about 
facts; treating all actions and events as nutters of 
course, neither strange, nor startling, nor affect¬ 
ing, and important only as generating certain 
facts which we call social and political results; so 
dry and cold that you shrink from contact with 
him, and yet so useful and so sound that you 
avoid it at. your peril. 
Lord Macaulay, the stately yet impetuous march 
of whose clear and brilliant narrative, corrusea- 
ting with well-polishod epigram and nicely poised 
antithesis, “all clinquant all in gold,” curries 
you oil with it with an irresistible impulse, yet 
wearies you at last by the very monotony of its 
elaborate excellence and the studied modulation 
of its vigorous aud ringing tread; Mucaulay, with 
a keen eye for the picturesque, and a large share 
ol' that sort of poetic feeling which attained its 
perfection in Scott, recoguiziug (like Htillam) the 
importance of events in their social and political 
aspect, and also (unlike Hallam) strongly affected 
by incidents in themselves, provided they are out 
of the common way, but seeing little to wonder at 
or to weep over iu the ordinary course of that 
sorrowful mystery, the life of man, looking 
scarcely beyond the surface of things—hating all 
philosophies except those which minister to the 
material welfare, despising ethics, sneering at 
metaphysics, barely tolerating creeds, and distrib¬ 
uting praise or blame without hesitation and 
without stint, under a strong party bias and from 
a standard of morality of the simplest and most 
conventional kind. 
And Mr. Carlyle—what shall we say of Carlyle? 
—writing an English exclusively of his own, part 
German, part classical, part colloquial, part poet¬ 
ical— in itself a wonderful creation of genius, 
startling indeed to Edinburgh reviewers of the 
“able article” order, and to old ladies who have 
“no patience with such nonsense,” but digging 
up, as it were, and bringing to light from the 
depths of our glorious language a power and a 
beauty unknown before—valuing events, not for 
the political or social, but for the human interest 
that is iu them, and looking upon every action or 
event, however ordinary, with intense interest, 
curiosity, and almost awe, as matter for wonder, 
laughter, or tears; as “ a strange fact, not an un¬ 
exampled one, for the strangest of all animals is 
man;” with a humor exuberant enough to rob 
history of her dignity, and a pathos aud earnest¬ 
ness deep enough to restore it to her tenfold; with 
a jealous and passionate love, and a quick and 
steady discernment of all that in human action is 
lovely, and true, and great, and a graphic power 
which causes scenes and persons to live and move 
before us as they never lived in history till now; 
with a turn of mind singularly unjudicial, yet a 
judgment of character eminently impartial be¬ 
cause of the marvelous insight which he possesses 
into the secret chambers of the human heart. No 
question but of the three Carlyle comes nearest 
to the ideal of perfect history; and that is because 
Carlyle is a poet. Poetry, indeed, is not history, 
nor is history, poetry; and yet it is eternally true 
that, except by a poet, no perfect history can be 
written. 
A New Creature. —A Scotch girl was convert¬ 
ed under the preaching of Whitcficld. When 
asked if her heart was changed, her true and 
beautiful answer was—“Something 1 know is 
changed; it may be the world, it may be my 
heart; there Is a great change somewhere, I’m 
sure; for everything is different from what it once 
was.” A very apt commentary on that passage 
(2 Cor. 5: 17,) “ Therefore if any man he in Christ, 
he is a new creature; old things are passed 
away, behold all things are become new.” 
The Sabbath. —This is the loveliest, brightest 
day of the week, to a spiritual mind. These rests 
refresh the soul in God, that finds nothing but 
turmoil in the creature. Should not this day be 
welcome to the soul, that sets it free to mind its 
own business, which has other days to attend to 
the business of its servant, the body? And those 
are a certain pledge to it of that expected free¬ 
dom when it shall enter on an eternal Sabbath, 
and rest in Him forever who is the only rest of 
the soul.— Leighton. 
Prater. —As every sacrifice was to be seasoned 
with salt, so is every mercy to be sanctioned by 
prayer. As gold sometimes is laid, not only on 
cloth and Bilk, hut also upon silver, so prayer is 
that golden duty that must be laid, not only upon 
all our natural and civil actions, as eating, drink¬ 
ing, buying, and selling, but also upon all our 
silver duties, upon all our most religious and 
spiritual performances. 
The world gives a little, that it may give no 
more; but Christ gives “that he may give.” He 
gives a little grace, that he may give grace upon 
grace. He gives a little comfort, that he may 
give fullness of joy. He gives some sips, that he 
may give full draughts- He gives pence, that he 
may give pounds; and he give pounds, that he 
may give hundreds. 
A minister of God from a foreign land once 
remarked to a Christian assembly in this city, 
“To one sinner that reads the Bible, there are 
twenty who read professing Christians.” How 
important, then, that we should all shine as moral 
light-bo uses, that men may not, from our short¬ 
comings and sins, make shipwreck of their im¬ 
mortal souls! 
The heart is the spring and fouutain of all nat¬ 
ural and spiritual actions: it is the primtunmobile, 
the great wheel that sets other wheels going; 
therefore keep it with all custody and caution, or 
else bid farewell to all true joy, peace and comfort. 
Wise men give their choicest and richest gifts 
in secret; and so doth Christ give his loved ones 
the best when they are all alone. But as for such 
as cannot spare time to seek God in secret, they 
sufficiently manifest that they have little friend¬ 
ship or fellowship with him to whom they so sel¬ 
dom come. 
A modest diffidence in our own wisdom, 
strength, attainments, and abilities, with confi¬ 
dence in God, and respect for superiors, is hope¬ 
ful; while a desponding diffidence is half-brother 
to nothing. 
“Pride,” saithHugo, “was born in Heaven, but 
forgetting by what way she fell therefrom, she 
could never find her way thither again." 
Influence is to be measured, not by the extent 
of surface it covers, but by its kind .— Canning. 
There is many a good wife who can neither 
dance nor sing well 
Sinful omissions lead to sinful commissions. 
